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So the poem is like that. When I consider how my light is spent, ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve there with my Maker, and prSo the poem is like that. When I consider how my light is spent, ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more…
So the poem is like that. When I consider how my light is spent, ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve there with my Maker, and present My true account, lest he, returning, chide, "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask. But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replied, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gift; who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait."
This poem reflects my thoughts. As I think about how I've used my life, before I've even lived half of it in this vast and dark world, I realize that hiding my one true talent is a waste. It's within me but serves no purpose, even though my heart is eager to serve my Creator and show my true self, fearing his return and reprimand. I ask, 'Does God really demand labor from those who lack light?' But soon, patience answers my complaint, saying, 'God doesn't require either human effort or gifts; those who bear his gentle burden serve him best. His realm is majestic; countless beings rush to fulfill his commands, traveling tirelessly across land and sea; even those who simply wait and stand are serving him too.'